


Wolfsong

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, Possession, Sexual Content, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 09:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: She bites down on his lip in answer —hard. He growls, she snarls; a tangle of limbs, clawing, scraping, slashing,bruising.A dragon has come to Winterfell but it is wolves that strike fire in its crypts//Sansa speaks sharp words; Jon gives sharper kisses in return.





	Wolfsong

Fireflame and feathers, each chases the other across faces carved of stone: endless, eternal, grey as the walls they rest below. This hall beneath the earth is dark and deep, a warren of stone steps twisting endless, eternal, grey as the walls they rest below. Without flame to flood its darkness, it is a realm of shadows and wraiths and spirits and ghosts — a world where men and gods come to meet.

Wolves, too.

She feels him here in the half-lit darkness; a prickle of flesh, a hitch of breath in a throat tightened by cold, a grip of fingers closer on the candlestick. Layer upon layer of dark wool and fur and velvet, but still she shivers — and she growls. Its sound blooms like blood in the shadows: blue to crimson, petals of it pealing like little silver bells knolling out the rhythms of her breath, the thrum of her heart. He scents it, moves forward — he is a wolf, after all. Hard hot body against her back, gloved hand curling the column of her throat, wild beard a brush — a _threat_ — against the soft skin below her ear.

“She is fire in a world of frost.” Her voice is ice in a world of echoes: snow-sharp, snow- _cold_. “She does not belong here.”

“We have need of what she offers.” His voice is dark as the shadows chasing the flames flickering along the bare stone walls. “Wingbeat and wildfire.”

“And pretty violet eyes.”

An arrowhead parting icy air, a honeybee piercing skin with its sting, a ship cutting through white-tipped waves — her voice ringing knife-sharp the ice of the air, shattering the gloom of this world of men and gods, making it ripple, surge, _spark_. A breath and he has turned her, flat-backed against the bare stone wall, his eyes dark as the shadows that crowd them — wolf-wild glittering dragonglass in lurching candleflame.

“I _never_ — ”

She silences him with a snarl. “Better not to breathe, brother, than to breathe a lie.”

He silences her with a kiss more teeth than tongue. “Was _that_ a lie?”

She bites down on his lip in answer — _hard_. He growls, she snarls; a tangle of limbs, clawing, scraping, slashing, _bruising_. Black and black and black: cloak and leathers and tunic and gloves — she rips them up to bare his skin that is pale as hers, moon-white, a spectre in the dark, a beacon in this gloomy world where men and gods come to meet.

Wolves, too.

Fireflame and feathers, but they are tooth and claw and bite and buck. His fingers — sword-strong, sword- _rough_ — pull the clasp off her cloak, the bone-buttons of her gown black as death, up and up and up: skirts a rippling tide around her waist, her thighs soft-spun silk beneath the roughness of his palms, the swell of them opening up for his fingers. _Fire in a world of frost_. Head tipped back, throat bared to him: a sacrifice, a capitulation — an offering. He takes it with his teeth, marks it with a bruise that will bloom bright as blood come the morrow. She hisses. Her nails slice at his cheek, mark it with a cut that will clot as tree sap come the morrow. _Mine, mine_. Each mark says as they etch it on the other’s skin: kiss and cut and bite and bruise. _Yours, yours_. Shouts each glare, each gaze, each stare, each look of fire they throw in this world of frost twisting endless, eternal, grey as the walls it rests below.

“ _You_ are fire in a world of frost,” he growls as her thighs wrap bone-tight around his hips. “You belong here, with me.” His eyes are dark pools black as the mouth of shadows that surrounds them. “I thought of sapphires when I looked in those violet eyes — _that_ is not a lie, sweet sister.” He slides inside her and groans: petal-soft, white-hot, wolf-wild. “That is not a lie, Sansa Stark.”

She moans. Its sound blooms like blood in the darkness: blue to crimson, petals of it pealing like war horns blowing out the rhythms of her breath, the thrum of her heart. Red-hot, rippling, she rocks her hips, rolls him deeper, _deeper_ — her warmth is endless, eternal as the walls they writhe below — but not grey: crimson, cherry, copper — _fire_ , like her hair flowing flames down her back. His fingers tangle in it, twist it round and round to shine bright as rings: red-rich, bone-white, crimson, ivory, they bleed together, they _belong_. His teeth at her throat; her fingers at his jaw.

“Wingbeat and wildfire.” Her breath snow-sharp in his ear. “No more.”

“No more… I promise.”

A kiss that lands light as the feathers chasing fireflame in this world of shadows. Her mouth opens for him, plush lips parting, tongue rolling wind-whipped as the sea, pulling him in as her petal-soft white-hot wolf-wild grip of him between her legs. She is honey-sweet, snow-sharp: a taste thick as the blood that bonds them — it clouds his tongue, flows like wine down his throat: fire-hot as her hair, syrupy as her sapphire eyes, he is _drunk_ on it, laps at it like a rough tongue at any icy stream. His mouth an inferno the line of her throat; she tips back her head and whimpers.

“Mine.” Her face as eternal as the ones of stone that surround them, her breath a mist burning icy air as she takes his kiss. “Not hers.”

“Yours.” His voice soft as the pull of his lips at hers, glancing, drifting, chasing as the feathers to the fireflame. “Always.”

Overhead, a dragon roars.

Here, beneath the earth, wolves smile at the sound and sing their own: a howl, a growl, a whine — _wolfsong_ that echoes in this world where men and gods come to meet.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : cannot stress enough that I have never seen the show (aside from the odd clip/screenshot here and there; **#bookreader** ) so any discrepancies with its timeline/seasons/episodes etc. I apologise for... **but** the idea of a confrontation in the crypts following Daenerys' arrival at Winterfell struck me sudden as a storm. Please feel free to leave feedback etc. 🐺


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